Blackman, Justice of the Peace, was sitting in the office of the Golden Age when we found him, reading the exchanges and offering gratuitous advice to the editor.  He was a shortish man, thick in body, with sparse hair and hay-colored, ragged mustache.  His face was florid, his pale eyes protruded.  He was a wise-looking man, excellently well suited in appearance for the office which he filled.  We explained to him our errand.  Gradually, as the sense of his own new importance dawned upon him, he began to swell, apparently until he assumed a bulk thrice that which he formerly possessed.  His spine straightened rigidly; a solemn light came into his eye; a cough that fairly choked with wisdom echoed from his throat.  It was a great day for Blackman, J. P.

“Do I know this man, this cow puncher?” said he.  “Of course I know him, damn him, and I know what he done, too.  Such a high-handed act never ought to be tolerated, sir!  Destroyin’ property—­why, a-destroyin’ of life and property, for he killed the pig—­and this new family of citizens dependin’ in part on the pig fer their sustenances this comin’ season; to say nothin’ of his nigh shootin’ me up as I was crossin’ the street from the post-office!  Try him!  Why, of course we ought to try him.  What show have we got if we go on this lawless way?  What injucement can we offer Eastern Capital to settle in our midst if, instead of bein’ quiet and law-abidin’, we go on a-rarin’ and a-pitchin’ and a-runnin’ wide open, every man for hisself?  What are we here for, you, and you, and me, if it ain’t to set in trile over such britches of the peace?”

“You’re in,” said Dan Anderson, succinctly.  “Get over to your ’dobe.  We’ll hold this trial right away.  I reckon all the boys’ll know about it by this time.  I’ll go over and get the prisoner.  But, hold on!  He ain’t arrested yet.  Who’ll serve the warrant?  Ben Stillson (the sheriff) is down on the Hondo, and his deputy, Poe, is out of town.  There ain’t a soul here to serve a paper.  Looks like the court was some rusty, don’t it?”

“Warrant!” said the Justice, “warrant!  You don’t need no warrant.  Wasn’t he seen a-doin’ the act?”

“Oh, but it wasn’t a real first-class felony,” demurred Dan, with some shade of conscience left.

“Well, I’ll arrest him myself,” said the Justice.  “He’s got to be brought to trile.”

“Well, now,” I ventured to suggest, “that doesn’t look exactly right, either, since you are to try the case, Judge.  It’s legal, but it isn’t etiquette.”

Blackman scratched his head.  “Maybe that’s so,” said he.  Then turning to me, “S’pose you arrest him.”

“He can’t,” said Dan Anderson.  “He’s the prosecuting attorney—­only other lawyer in town.  It wouldn’t look right for either the judge or prosecutor to make the arrest.  Curly might not like it.”  This all seemed true enough, and we fell into a quandary.